


Secret Location

by SigmaCreations



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5418014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaCreations/pseuds/SigmaCreations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU story, set after Ruth's return to the Grid in S8, but Jo is still alive. Just an idea I had recently while captioning a picture. HR of course. Kudos owns the characters and the rest is my work. Reviews are very much appreciated, as always. Cheers, S.C.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Location

“Have you seen Lucas's tattoos?” Jo whispers as the man himself walks past them.

“I caught a glimpse,” Ruth admits once Lucas is safely out of ear shot. “Why?”

“I just saw them yesterday, when the paramedics took a look at him,” she confides. “It must have taken ages to do them all. His back's almost completely covered in them.”

Ruth makes a non-committal noise, frowning down at the report she's skimming through and wondering where Jo is going with this conversation and if she'd think her rude if she told her to stop distracting her from her work. The truth is, however, that after the shock of almost losing Jo, her closest friend now since her return, she's reluctant to do anything that might upset her or push her away, even temporarily. After everything she's been through, they've both been through actually, they're closer now than ever before, so much so that she's found herself confiding in her about her exile and her life away from here, in Cyprus, with George and Nico.

“Do you think it hurts... to get one?” Jo asks next.

“A little, but it's not as bad as you'd think,” she replies absently. "It's the itching while it's healing that really gets you."

“Wait!” Jo exclaims. “You sound like you know what you're talking about. Do you have a tattoo?”

“Two,” she answers, lifting her eyes to look at her.

“Really?” Jo seems delighted. “Where? How come I've never seen them?”

“Because they're very well hidden,” she blushes and turns back to her work.

“Oh no, you don't,” Jo objects. “I need more info. How big are they? What do they look like? When did you get them done?”

“Jo,” she sighs in exasperation, “I'm not discussing my tattoos with you at work.”

“You have tattoos?” Lucas's voice interrupts, making her cringe. Great! Now the whole bloody Grid will know.

“Two,” Jo answers for her, “but she won't tell me anything about them, and apparently, they're well hidden.”

“Jo!” she exclaims, flustered and embarrassed by all this attention, especially when she notices Harry pause and look at them as he crosses the Grid. Bugger. That's all she needs now, for Harry to know she has tattoos in intimate places. George had never liked them, she finds herself remembering and wondering if Harry would, causing her to blush even harder.

“Who's the artist?” Lucas asks, and she can tell he's really interested in her answer. Great. Now she's going to bond with Lucas over bloody tattoos.

“Aurore Charbonneau,” she replies, trying hard not to blush. “She's French. Works in Paris.”

Lucas nods and looks at her expectantly and a glance at Jo reveals a similar expression of eager expectation on her face. She sighs and shakes her head before saying, “One's a butterfly and the other a dolphin,” she lies smoothly. “I got them done in my teens. Happy now?”

Lucas just nods again and walks away, but Jo grins and says, “So where are they?”

“Jo!” she groans in exasperation.

“What?” she says. “Go on; tell me. You know you want to. Just point. No one's watching.”

She lifts her gaze and glances swiftly around to make sure Jo's right, and then knowing Jo's not going to let it go until she confides in her, she quickly lifts her right hand and touches the spot just above her left breast that's well covered by her bra, whispering, “Butterfly,” and then presses the same finger to the spot to the right of her left hip bone that's normally under the elastic of her knickers, saying, “Dolphin. Happy now?”

“Yes,” Jo grins and turns away, back to her own work.

Ruth gives a sigh of relief and turns back to the report she's skimming through, unaware of Harry's eyes watching her from across the Grid with barely masked desire and longing.

 

_Six weeks later - Harry's house_

 

There's a knock on the bathroom door, and quickly checking that the towel's covering her adequately, she walks over to it, opening it a fraction.

“Shirt, t-shirt, jumper and track-suit bottoms,” he says softly, offering her the pile of clothes. “Didn't know what you'd prefer.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs, opening the door a little wider to take them from his hands, trying not to shiver when his hand brushes against hers, sending sparks coursing through her. She lifts her eyes to his, but he's not looking at her face. In fact, he's unabashedly staring down at her chest. Bloody man, she thinks in a panic, feeling her skin flush as she quickly glances down to make sure her breasts are still covered. They are, she notes with some relief, but finding him still staring when she lifts her eyes to his once more, she clears her throat, watching him start and quickly lift his gaze to hers.

“Sorry,” he stammers. “God, I'm sorry. It's the tattoo,” he adds softly, making her blush deepen. Bloody insufferable man, she thinks, swallowing quickly to moisten her throat. Why oh why did she come here tonight? But, of course, she knows why. Because she trust him and he's the only person she'd ever turn to in a crisis. “It's not a butterfly,” he observes softly, making her stare at him in surprise.

She drops her gaze, silently cursing Jo and her curiosity. Clearly Harry had been paying much closer attention to their conversation than she'd realised. “It's a phoenix,” she confesses quietly, lifting her eyes to his. “I got it done when I was fifteen... in memory of my father.”

“Is that what the Arabic says?” he asks softly, his gaze so gentle and compassionate.

“Beloved father,” she murmurs, feeling herself getting lost in his eyes. “I guess, even then, part of me hoped he'd come back, rise from the ashes and stride right into school one morning to take me home.” She's never shared these thoughts with anyone else before. George had never asked.

His eyes soften even more and she has to look away quickly lest she lose the tenuous grip she has on her emotions. She clears her throat and murmurs, “Do we know who they are yet?”

“Lucas and Tariq are working on it,” he replies, pulling slowly back. “I'll be downstairs if you need anything else,” he adds and turns away.

She closes the door after him, acutely feeling the loss of him and wondering why she always draws away like that when all she really wants is to fall into his arms and beg him to hold her tight and never let her go.

 

_A few hours and several glasses of wine later_

 

“Please, Ruth,” he cajoles, “put me out of my misery. Just tell me what it is.”

“I told you – a dolphin,” she replies, enjoying herself more than she probably should.

“It's not,” he objects. “I know it's not. You lied about the butterfly so it stands to reason you'd lie about the dolphin too. Just tell me. I won't be able to sleep tonight if you don't.”

She laughs at that, shaking her head at him and grinning. “I'm not lying. It's just a dolphin.”

“Bullshit,” he says, draining his glass and placing it on the coffee table before he gets up from his arm chair and takes a seat beside her on the sofa. “If you won't tell me, Ruth,” he murmurs as he leans in towards her, “I'm going to have to torture it out of you.”

“Torture?!” she asks in surprise. “You wouldn't dare,” she scoffs, taking another gulp of wine. Considering how badly this evening had began, with her finding her house watched by unknown men and her mad dash across London to turn up at his door scared, exhausted, and soaked to the skin, it's turning out to be rather good in the end. He's been quite wonderful, immediately putting Lucas and Tariq onto finding out who they are, and spending the rest of the evening being really sweet, letting her use his shower, lending her some clothes and throwing hers in the drier, ordering them food, and plying her with wine and good, relaxing, and entertaining conversation. This is so much better than their date all those years ago, and she's not sure if that's because they're now both a little drunk or on account of them perhaps being on a much more equal footing than they were three years ago; her exile has changed her, made her much more confident and self-sufficient and she's no longer intimidated by him in any way. Whatever the reason, they're much more free and relaxed around each other tonight than ever before.

He reaches across her to grab her glass, extracting it from her hand despite her protests and placing it on the coffee table beside his own before turning towards her once more, his strong arms preventing her escape as he places his hands on either side of her and leans in, pressing his face into her neck and rubbing his stubble covered cheeks against her skin. “Stop it!” she half-laughs, half-streaks, trying to push him away.

“Not until you tell me,” he replies, moving his face to the other side of her neck as his fingers dig into her side, wiggling around and tickling her mercilessly.

“Never,” she gasps, squirming away from him and digging her own fingers into his side, giving as good as she gets until they end up horizontal on the sofa with him on top of her, both of them laughing and panting from the exertion. “All right, all right,” she gasps eventually, her chest heaving to catch her breath. “You win. I'll tell you.”

A look of triumph crosses his face as he lift his head to look at her, but as their gazes meet and hold, they suddenly both become aware of how close they are to each other, how snugly their bodies are pressed together and how easy it would be for this to turn into something more, something wonderful. “Well?” he asks huskily, both their faces suddenly serious.

“Let me go first,” she replies, suddenly overcome by his proximity and the need to get away from him and all he makes her feel.

“I don't trust you, Ms Evershed. First you tell me, then I let you go,” he smirks, breaking the sudden tension between them with his playful words.

“Fine,” she huffs. “It's a bunch of forget-me-nots. Happy now?”

“Forget-me-nots?” he queries, his face suddenly serious again, his eyes probing deeply into her own.

“Yes,” she whispers, taken aback by the sudden shift in his mood and the intensity of his gaze. Can he possibly know?

He holds her gaze for long moments and she's sure he's going to kiss her, unable to make up her mind if she's more scared or thrilled at the prospect. But after what seems like an eternity, he begins to pull back, slowly shifting his weight off her and resuming his seat beside her on the sofa. The disappointment she feels is palpable, and she has to work hard to get past it as she lifts herself into a sitting position and accepts the glass of wine he's refilled and hands her with a quiet, “Thanks.”

They take a few sips of wine in silence before he returns his glass to the table and turns his head to look at her again. “True love and memories,” he says softly, causing her eyes to dart up to meet his in surprise. How the hell did he know that? Then as if reading her mind, he answers the unspoken question. “I planted some by your... fake grave after you left... and another bunch here... in my garden.” His voice is deep and husky, his eyes adoring and so infinitely sad as he gazes at her for long moments. “When did you get that tattoo done, Ruth?” he asks eventually.

She swallows, dropping her gaze to her glass and lifting it to her lips to take a fortifying gulp of the ruby liquid before she can find the courage to speak. “About a month after I left here,” she confesses softly. He doesn't reply, remaining silent and utterly still until she can bear the suspense no more and has to lift her eyes to his. They're so full of suppressed emotion that they take her breath away and she finds herself getting utterly lost in them, overcome by him, by the trust he's showing her in letting her catch a glimpse of what's buried deep in his heart and the beauty of his gentle soul.

He smiles softly at her, lifting his right hand to gently stroke her cheek, his eyes shining with unshed tears, apparently lost for words. She can't say anything either, but she suddenly feels the need to tell him, show him how much he means to her, how much she loves him, how much she's longed for him, and to tell him that she's ready now for more, for a future together; she can't, doesn't want to fight it any more.

Slowly she sets her glass of wine aside and reaches down between them, lifting the jumper she's wearing and pushing down the elastic of the track-suit bottoms he's lent her until the top of her hip bone is visible and beside it the tattoo – a string of forget-me-nots in the shape of a heart, surrounding three letters: HJP.

“Ruth,” he whispers hoarsely, “those are my initials.”

“Yes,” she whispers back as his eyes meet hers once more. She smiles rather crookedly as she fights to hold in her tears and reaches up to cup his face, stroking his cheeks a few times while she gets her emotions back under control. “I never stopped thinking about you and hoping you'd come find me and bring me home,” she confesses softly. “I've never loved another man like I've loved you,” she adds and kisses him, a soft kiss, full of love and hope and longing.

His lips move gently against hers, once, twice, three times before, with a groan of deep longing, he pulls her into his arms, burying his face in her neck while he fights for control, his chest heaving and body shaking with the effort of holding himself together, and she can't help succumbing to her own tenuous grip on her emotions and allowing a few tears to escape her own eyes as she rubs her hands up and down his back and blinks rapidly in an effort to keep them at bay.

Eventually, he pulls back, seeking out her eyes with his own as he murmurs her name. “Ruth?”

“Yes?” she smiles, wiping a stray tear from her cheek.

“You won't change your mind tomorrow, will you?” he asks, his voice almost pleading. “Because we've had a lot of wine tonight and I couldn't bear it if-”

“I won't,” she interrupts softly, lifting her hand to cup his cheek. “I won't leave you again. I promise.”

He nods and smiles, a smile of true joy. "I love you," he says and as he pulls her into his arms and presses a soft kiss against her forehead, she sighs in contentment and cuddles into his arms, feeling more hopeful and at peace than she has done in a very long time.


End file.
